


Keep Close to Me

by thrace



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thrace/pseuds/thrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-ep for 3.02: Jemma won't let go of the knife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Close to Me

Jemma won’t let go of the knife.

Bobbi first spots it at Jemma’s follow-up exam, after she’s slept a scant four hours. They expected she would be out for longer, her body taking the rest it needs after an ordeal none of them can really comprehend at the moment. But Jemma is up and about just four hours after passing out in one of the guest rooms. 

She sits on the exam table, eyes shifting constantly, clocking her exits, hyperaware of every movement around her. She wouldn’t let any of the base medics examine her, squirming and jumping and not wanting to turn her back to a stranger. This isn’t really Bobbi’s specialty at all, but she’s the only one Jemma hasn’t borderline growled at who can carry out the kinds of exams she needs. 

She doesn’t know how they missed it the first time, when they were collecting her clothes and her bag of odds and ends for analysis. But somehow Jemma, who barely made it through Hydra without getting herself shot, kept a knife on her person without a single person on base noticing. Now it sits under her thigh on the exam table, within quick reach. 

Bobbi keeps her hands visible as much as possible. She moves as slowly as she can. She always stays within Jemma’s sightline. Still Jemma’s little hand keeps drifting towards the knife. She’s going to get in trouble if she gets caught with an unregistered off-planet artifact.

“Jemma,” Bobbi says, pulling off her gloves and rolling aside her instrument table. She sits on a little round stool in front of Jemma, keeping her at just about arm’s length.

Jemma’s eyes sharpen on her, focusing like a hawk spotting prey from above. No, the opposite. Like someone who is suddenly taking in as much sensory input as possible, scenting the wind and listening for telltale sounds of being stalked. Someone ready to slash in with her knife, doing as much damage as quickly as possible before sprinting away. “Yes?” Her voice is practically gone, rusted and in desperate need of oiling.

“Can I ask you to show me your knife?” Bobbi asks, chin nodding towards Jemma’s thigh.

Jemma’s hand flexes. Bobbi can tell her first instinct is to deny it exists. But slowly she lifts her leg, hand sliding underneath and pulling it out. 

Bobbi squints at it, not wanting to come too close too fast. It’s a wicked little thing, a shard of stone that she clutches like a stiletto. “Is it ok if I hold it?” she asks.

Jemma’s hand tightens its grip, pulling back towards her body. 

“I’ll give it back, I promise.” Bobbi waits patiently, not moving at all, just letting Jemma get used to the idea.

Eventually she nods, and her fist drifts back towards Bobbi, who holds out her hand so Jemma can drop it into her palm without touching her. She hefts it a few times, feeling the texture of it against her skin. It feels a bit like shale, and she can see some tool marks on it where someone has chipped at it to make it more comfortable to the human hand. Eventually she flips it over to offer it back to Jemma, handle first.

Jemma takes it in a darting motion, body visibly loosening as soon as she has it in hand. Not enough to be truly relaxed, but not coiled so tight she might give herself a hernia. Bobbi would bet that she could strike, snake-fast, and leave a bloody puncture wound behind before Bobbi could even think to protest. “Would you be ok turning that over to the lab techs to analyze?” Bobbi asks.

Again she shrinks, the muscles in her hand and forearm pulsing. She looks on the verge of an anxiety attack.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Bobbi soothes. She stays seated and leans to her left, her hand drifting down to her boot. Jemma tracks every movement with her eyes. Bobbi slips her fingers into the top of her boot and pulls out a black folding knife. “How about a trade?”

Jemma’s eyes flick back and forth between Bobbi’s knife and her own. Weighing, calculating, that magnificent brain working the factors.

Bobbi uses her right hand to slowly unfold the blade instead of popping it out with the thumb release. “See?” she says, showing Jemma the carbon steel blade. “I’d feel a lot better if you slept with this under your pillow instead of what you got in your hand.”

Jemma nods, a short jerk of the head. Bobbi folds the knife back up and slowly rolls closer. Softly, she puts the knife in Jemma’s open hand, then Jemma does the same for her, handing over the stiletto. Bobbi carefully places it in a sample dish. When she turns back to Jemma, she finds her fiddling with the knife, experimentally flicking it open, closing it, flicking it open again. Getting used to the heft of it, testing the sharpness against her thumb. Bobbi feels something almost strangling her heart, guilt tangling up through her guts like vines. 

“You think you could go back to sleep?” Bobbi asks. “Or do you want something to eat?”

Jemma’s mouth contorts and Bobbi can see some of the girl she was before, who hesitated because she couldn’t choose between ice creams on movie night. “I want to sleep for the next week,” she whispers. “But I can’t.”

“That’s ok,” Bobbi says. “Let’s go to the lounge and you can have something to eat. Something easy to get your stomach back on Earth food.” The lounge will be empty this time of night and it’s not as open as the cafeteria. She stands up first, but before Jemma can slip off the table, holds up her hand. She moves slowly, so slowly, giving Jemma enough time to wriggle away if she wants. But she stills, letting Bobbi’s hand fall on her shoulder, where she rubs Jemma’s upper arm a few times. She doesn't want Jemma to think Bobbi is afraid of her. “Even though it doesn’t feel like it, you’re safe here. You made it," she says.

Jemma looks away, off to the side, down at the floor. Her breathing picks up and she swallows hard. 

“One of us will be with you until you’re ok to be on your own again. You’re safe.” She slouches, trying not to tower over Jemma so much. “You’re safe.”

Jemma keeps her head down. Bobbi can see tears tracking along her cheeks, but she is entirely silent. She must have learned to swallow up every sound, pull into herself until she was invisible. Bobbi wants to hug her, hold her, stroke her hair and reassure her. 

“Will you—” 

Bobbi is as attentive as a bloodhound, hanging on every word. Jemma hasn’t volunteered a thing without being questioned first.

“—stay with me while I eat? Fitz is still asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Of course,” Bobbi says. “Come on. I think there’s vegetable soup.” She waits by the door and pretends not to watch Jemma slide her new knife into the pouch of her hoodie, with one hand burrowed in after it.


End file.
